An old black rotary phone sat on the desk. Brought back memories as I dialed.

“The Painted Lady.”

“Bits, it’s me.”

“Would you like to make an appointment?” Her voice was crisp, businesslike.

“Someone’s there?”

“Tuesday at three sounds fine.”

This wasn’t very productive.

“Is it the cops?”

“Yes.”

“They’re looking for me?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to Tim?”

“Yes.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how mad is he?”

“Ten o’clock would be good, too.”

Uh-oh.

“I guess I shouldn’t go home for a while, huh?”

“No.”

“I’m at Chez Tango. With Kyle. He went with me to Trevor’s. Haven’t found Charlotte. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for everything. I really mean it.” I hung up. There was little more I could do.

I sifted through some papers on the desk. Invoices for booze, electrical bills-those might go down if they had the new lightbulbs-a pawnshop ticket.

I glanced quickly at the door to make sure Kyle wasn’t coming.

The pawnshop ticket was from Pawned, the second place I’d visited yesterday and the place where Charlotte had gone. The item listed was a “jeweled pin.” The seller? Trevor McKay. The date on the ticket was two weeks ago. And according to this, he’d gotten a hundred bucks for the brooch.

I turned the ticket over in my hand, looking for answers. But there was nothing there. I contemplated the office, which somehow seemed smaller today than it had the other night, when I did the drawing for Eduardo.

Thinking about that sketch, I realized I hadn’t shown my drawing of Rusty Abbott to Kyle. I hadn’t even asked him whether he knew the guy. They may have met at that ball.

Kyle didn’t have a queen-of-hearts tattoo, though, so he wasn’t one of the guys who’d gone with Abbott to Murder Ink.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t hear him approach.

“What do you have there?”

I jumped. Not like a rabbit, but more like a little jolt. I shoved the pawnshop ticket under a stray piece of paper. “Do you know Rusty Abbott?” I asked.

Kyle, who had truly morphed into MissTique now with the addition of fake boobs, said, “He works for Lester Fine.”

“So you know him?”

“I don’t know him well. I met him at the Queen of Hearts Ball. He came to the club a couple times.”

“He came to see a show?”

Kyle nodded.

“Did he come with Lester Fine?”

Kyle barked out a laugh. “Girl, Lester Fine wouldn’t be caught dead in my club. He’s running for public office. The headlines would tear him apart.”

“Did you see Rusty Abbott around here the night Trevor got hit with the cork?”

He hesitated a second, then said, “I don’t think so.” The light was too lousy to see any real change in his expression.

“I think it was his truck that was outside earlier,” I said.

He shrugged. “That was his truck? Then why did you ask me if I knew who it belonged to?” Suspicion crept into his tone.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I had no idea what I was looking for.

Kyle sighed. “Brett, you’ve had a long day. You’re tired and looking for conspiracies where they probably don’t exist. Maybe you should just go home now and fess up to your brother that you went out looking for Charlotte and couldn’t find her.”

He was trying to get rid of me.

I was ready to be gotten rid of.

I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but I did know that I suddenly felt very alone here at Chez Tango, and that wasn’t a good thing.

“You’re right,” I agreed.

Before I left the dressing room, I turned around. Kyle had followed me out of the office and was standing with his hand on one hip.

“Thanks for everything.”

“Will you tell your brother about the money?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I have to.”

I started out again.

“Be careful, Brett,” Kyle said to my back.

“You, too.” I didn’t turn around. Just kept walking.

The parking lot was still deserted except for the gold Pontiac and the Honda. As I walked toward Jeff’s car, the key in my hand, I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

When it hit me, I stopped. Stared.

All four tires were flat.

And when I stooped down to check them out, I saw why.

Someone had slashed them.

Chapter 32

I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone except a woman walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A few cars passed, but no one paid any attention to me or Chez Tango. One guy in a Ferrari did honk his horn and shouted something at the woman, who was now passing the Bright Lights Motel. She gave him the finger, and he sped past.

I caught her eye for a second, but she just shrugged and kept going. From the looks of her outfit-short, tight dress and stiletto heels-she was probably a working girl. If I asked her whether she’d seen anyone here, she’d most likely give me the finger, too.

I turned back to the car. Jeff was going to kill me.

I didn’t have my bag on me, which meant I didn’t have my AAA card. I didn’t have a phone, either.

I had nothing. Except keys to a car that wasn’t going anywhere. And about fifty bucks, thanks to Bitsy.

An inspection of Kyle’s Honda indicated that whoever had done this might have been sending me and only me a message. Because the Honda’s tires were intact. Who didn’t want me to leave? Or, more likely, who didn’t want me to keep moving forward with my little amateur investigation?

I thought about asking Kyle if I could borrow his Honda, but considering the state of Jeff’s car, he might not think I was a safe bet. But I had to do something.

I went back into Chez Tango, pushing open the metal door, hearing it slam behind me with a heavy thud.

“Who is it?” I heard Kyle call out.

“It’s just me,” I said loudly as I made my way toward the stage, where Kyle was practicing a dance step. “I need to use your phone again.”

He curtsied, then shimmied across the stage, his fake bosom shaking.

“Someone slashed my tires,” I said as I climbed the steps up to the stage floor.

Kyle stopped short and pulled himself up straight, but his wig wasn’t on properly and it moved by itself into his forehead. He shoved it back. “What do you mean, someone slashed your tires?”

“Just what I said.”

“My car?”

“Is fine,” I told him. “I just need to call a garage to come tow mine.”

“Mi teléfono es su teléfono,” Kyle said in mangled Spanish. Eduardo should teach him a few phrases.

I found myself back in the little office. I didn’t have a phone book, but I figured I should face the music, so I called Jeff to see where he’d like me tow his car to.

“Murder Ink.”

“Hi, Jeff,” I said, trying to sound casual, but it came out a little funny.

“Kavanaugh? What’s wrong?” Concern laced his voice. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Well, there seems to be a little problem,” I started.

“Don’t tell me you crashed my car. Please don’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t crash your car.”

I heard a heavy sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

“But someone slashed your tires.”

A sharp intake of breath. “What?”

“The car was parked at Chez Tango. I was inside for maybe fifteen minutes. When I went back out, the tires were slashed. I have no idea who did it. Of course I’ll pay for new tires. It was on my watch. So if you just tell me the name of the garage you want me to have it taken to, I’ll get that done right now. I’m really, really sorry about this, Jeff.” The words spilled out faster than water going over a New Orleans levee.

I could sense Jeff struggling with what to say. Finally, “I’ll call the garage. Do you need a ride?”

I didn’t want to impose any more than I already had, but I could hear the drag queens arriving and knew Kyle wouldn’t have time to chauffeur me around.